Bow Before Me and My Genius Mind

Well, friends, it’s official. I’m a genius.

According to an article in Curious Mind Magazine, people who share my level of intelligence have a few things in common. We are all slovenly, foul-mouthed night dwellers.

Yes! Vindication!

One of the items the article touches upon is that intelligent people can live happily within mounds of chaos.  I’ve always had the ability to find any object in the innumerable piles of my own self-made mess – or that of others – if I’ve touched it or seen it at least once.  This talent has not only been helpful at home (with two kids who constantly screamed “mooommm, where is my [insert any item whatsoever here]!?”), but at work as well where I was always able to help my employers keep track of their own individual chaos. I assumed this was a subconscious thing I did to remember where the item was or where it was supposed to be, but it turns out that I am, in fact, just intellectually a level above all of you organized people. Hey, don’t roll your eyes at me! It’s in the article, it must be so.  Also, my messy desk is a sign of creative genius, so just leave my mold covered coffee mugs alone and let me work in peace. I’m not lazy, I’m smart!

My inability to go to bed before 2:00 a.m. is also a sign that I am heads above all of you, tucked all warm in your little beds by 10:00 p.m.  Never mind that 2:00 a.m. is when the best items are on sale at QVC or late-night horror movies come on, it is actually just my genius brain doing genius things at a genius time of the morning.  Genius!

Lastly, it would seem my unrepeatable tirades against the entire driving population of my state are also a sign of my extreme intellectual advancements.  Contrary to some of those inane studies that show that people who curse frequently are considered less intelligent, it has been scientifically proven that I and all my potty-mouthed kin are in fact superior in intelligence to our more straight-laced peers.  I have a gloating comment to make about that, but I can’t write it here.  Perhaps if you share my intelligence, you can imagine what it would be.

I’m not one to say “I told you so,” but I always knew that under my sailor’s vocabulary, under-eye bags, and piles of junk, I was a genius.  Now, science proves it.

Oh, who am I kidding?  I love to say I told you so.  I told you so! 

Go forth and spread the word to your cursing, messy, night-owl friends.  We are the elite ruling class of intellectuals.

We are geniuses!

my inspiration for new business cards…





One more reason I’ll live forever

Okay, so we’ve already established that I’m pretty much going to live forever.  But according to the latest health article I found (okay, well, it’s not exactly a health article), not only am I going to live forever, I’m going to be sexy as hell doing it.  If you  think this has anything to do with salty language — well,  you’d be right. I mean really…just whose blog did you think you were reading?

The summary of the article, if you don’t want to read it (it’s pretty short though, so you can jump in without fear) is basically that people who curse live longer, healthier lives, and based on a survey of both men and women, tend to be “hotter.”

From the article:

“Several studies have found that swearing is a healthy practice that encourages emotional strength. Which pretty much debunks the theory that cursing is the language of the ignorant.

In one British study, researchers found that we swear to cope with situations that make us feel strong emotions, and that a good string of expletives can actually help us endure pain.

Not only do we feel more confident when we curse, but apparently it makes us a whole lot more attractive, too.”

Who would have ever thought that not only would my…ahem…occasional cursing… NOT be my downfall, but would in fact be a reason I get to stick around for a great while longer, enjoying the luxury of health, “hotness,” and a fairly unrestricted vocabulary.  It’s a win-win-win.

cartoon red riding hood




I swear…

Have you seen the prices of movies these days? I mean, have you seen them?  I suppose there are some places in the country where you can get into a matinee pretty inexpensively…but where I live that is not the case.  A matinee ticket costs $10.  A matinee!

That doesn’t sound expensive to you? Well, factor in the cost of a drink and some buttered popcorn – must haves for the movie-going experience with your daughter, let’s say, and all of a sudden you’re spending more than the GDP of many small countries.

In 2015 and 2016 there are a ton of movies coming out – especially Marvel Comic movies which happen to be our personal favorites – like another Avengers, Ant Man, Doctor Strange, and another Captain America….not to mention Deadpool (YAY!!), Woman in Black 2, Kingsman: The Secret Service, Jurassic World, Suicide Squad, and X-Men Apocalypse. The list just goes on and on.

I want to see them all, but I’m shuddering at the cost and 2015 isn’t even here yet!

Last night, my kids and I were sitting around talking about such things as the Marvel Universe and trying to figure out a way for us to afford to go to all of these movies.  We had what seemed like a brilliant idea – we’d start a slush fund of some sort so we’d have money saved up for when the movies came out.

But just how would we fund this slush fund?

We adjourned and went our separate ways promising to think about it… as I was leaving the room my eye caught sight of a cat in a precarious position in a spot where it knew damn well it didn’t belong. Without thinking (as so often happens), I let loose a loud verbal assault on said cat that included a few choice unprintable words (my mother reads this blog after all).

And a somewhat sarcastic, somewhat serious light bulb went off above my head.

“A ha!” I said. “How about a Swear Jar? Every time one of us swears, a dollar goes into the Swear Jar. By the time Avengers Age of Ultron is released, we’ll have a tidy sum.”

I have to admit that the language in our house is less than nice and sometimes…just sometimes…sounds like a sailor’s convention (if there ever were such things).

Of course my kids laughed but they too immediately saw the pure genius behind this plan, because, after all, they do live here and therefore know that if walls could talk…well…ours would definitely be censored.

Our celebration over this clever fundraising idea was short lived however once reality reared its ugly head.  I mean, let’s face it, when all is said and done, given the frequency with which we’d be paying, we’d just end up having to borrow money from the swear jar to pay the swear jar.

Needless to say, we’re working on a new plan.

Tales of a Tattooed Mom

Have you ever had one of those arguments where the logic the person you’re arguing with doesn’t make any sort of sense? He or she tries to draw conclusions using steps that just aren’t connected at all. Like saying, “Well, of course your car needs a new battery. You were drinking orange juice earlier today and there’s a 25% chance of rain.” Frustrating right??

A while back I had one of these sorts of highly intelligent debates with a family member who just so happens to be an all-around creepy sort of individual (no, really, he is). It was about (yet again) my “bad parenting.” Right off the bat let me say that I understand that everyone has their own style and I let them be.  I would appreciate the same in return. Of course if you’re dropping your baby on the head every time you pick him up, we might have a pow wow on proper cradling techniques. Otherwise, I am a firm believer that you can find your own path and I strongly advocate in staying true to what feels like good parenting to you.  But in this case the frustration and annoyance were exacerbated because the insults…umm…I mean advice…were so off the wall as to be considered mere hateful barbs rather than any attempt at being useful.

This familial idiot (it’s okay to talk about your own family this way, right?) had the following gems of debate that he doled out to me in what I’m sure was a well-meaning rant (he’s helpful like that):

1)      Because I have tattoos I’m a bad parent. Apparently, tattoos mean that you can’t properly raise a child. Apparently, as a tattooed mother, you would be teaching your kids something horribly wrong and inappropriate if said children should ever gaze upon your tattoos.  We’re not talking about showing off “down there” tattoos or something wildly controversial and therefore scarring the children for life…we’re talking fairies on the arms…a Celtic knot on the wrist…that sort of thing.  Apparently tattoos in and of themselves are somehow immoral and thereby teach an immoral lifestyle to the children.

2)      Because I use curse words on my Facebook page I’m a terrible role model to all of those impressionable kids reading my oh-so-exciting status updates and looking to me for idolatry.

Well, I can kind of see his point.  You see, in case you didn’t know it, I’m apparently a role model for the millions of children who are on Facebook.   Ahhh…no.   Seriously, about the Facebook buffoonery, let me tell you, I do not have a legion of pre-teens with malleable minds at my beck and call. I have no clue where this idea came from.  For various reasons my Facebook is locked down pretty tight. The only kids I’m friends with on Facebook are my own children and they tend to start worrying about me when they notice that I’m not using curse words.   “Mom, mom, are you okay today??   You don’t seem yourself.” It’s not like I’m spouting obscenities like a Chris Rock special, but words are words (we’ve covered this in another post so I’ll spare you the discourse).

The tattoo argument… I don’t even know how to start wrapping my head around that one. Parenting isn’t about teaching your child empathy or the difference in right and wrong apparently. It’s all about the ink. It just irritated me that in addition to my real-world language use, my body art now somehow damns me from ever being a good, proper mother.  As if I don’t have enough issues to deal with on my slip and slide path to Hell. Oh wait, didn’t I mention I’m going to Hell!? Supposedly they have a “special place” for me, but I’m not so sure about that. I’ve never once managed to get behind the velvet rope in my life.

I shouldn’t have been surprised at his rant really, all things considered. This family member and I — Well, we tend to not see eye to eye on a lot of things. Which I’m sure stems from the fact that I’ve never been one to adhere to the old “in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant” way of life.  And worse yet, I’m raising my daughter to have a voice of her own. I know. I’m awful.

All this from a guy in the latter years of middle-age who believes that Toddlers and Tiaras is an appropriate parenting resource and guide for young girls. Oh, and while cursing by me is wrong, borderline inappropriate flirting with teen girls by a middle-aged male authority figure such as himself is perfectly fine. Told you. He’s creepy. And why is it always the creepy ones who have no qualms about sharing their “morality” viewpoints anyway?

I guess when I look at all that we don’t have in common I should take his criticism as a good thing. If it’s something he doesn’t agree with, well then it’s probably a pretty good sign I’m doing something right.

Language Barriers

It’s about time I turn this blog back to another aspect of parenting that I’ve thought a lot about. And, as we’ve already seen in the past, it is quite possible that what I believe to be acceptable might inch me ever closer to the “bad” parent label in the eyes of some.   So…what am I talking about?

Cursing. Cussing. Swearing. Profanities. Obscenities. Bad words. No-nos.  It goes by different names depending on who you are, but you get the gist of it. 

I’ll be upfront and say that, as a parent, I don’t tend to get upset when my kids say something R-rated. Sure, if they turn into George Carlin at the dinner table I’ll tell them that it’s time to dial it down, but only due to the assault on my ears and subsequent headache it gives me.  I can tell when they’re cursing just for the hell heck of it and when that happens it just comes off as tacky. That’s what I really object to, I suppose. Language should be used with beauty at all times and sometimes the right F-bomb really gets the point across. But machine gun spraying the word around for no reason is disrespectful to verbiage itself.  As if I’m one to talk (I can see my family rolling their eyes now)….but we won’t get into that.

I don’t mind them cursing (and for the sake of reminding everyone, my daughter is 14 and my son 21, we’re not talking toddlers here), because, for starters, they’re intelligent kids. I know this. It’s not like they can’t think of a better word or are only capable of lifting expressions from the last Seth Rogen film they saw. No, they have an amazing vocabulary and excellent communication skills — so if they use a curse word, I assume it’s because that’s the best way to represent the feelings they’re trying to express. Fair enough.

Secondly, they’re smart enough to know to calm their tongues way down when around positions of authority (oh wait, isn’t that what a parent is supposed to be…we’ll get back to that another day) and in inappropriate places. My daughter would never give an oral book report on Pride and Prejudice and litter the essay with profanities. Nor would my son ever make liberal use of the word shit in front of his grandparents. They both know where and when…and in front of me, it’s fine. Why?

That brings us to our third point and one that might be most up to debate. To me, curse words are just that…words. The only reason they have power is because people decided they mean something. But they don’t mean much to me. I refuse to recognize the profound implications of a one syllable word.  I understand that not everyone shares these beliefs and I respect that.  I certainly am not spilling offensive remarks all over town unaware of how others perceive the words.  

Showing respect for the “audience” to whom one is speaking is paramount.  I’m just saying that when hit with a cuss word, there really is no effect.  I don’t vibrate with any profound emotion because again…it’s just a word.

Now, that being said, and being of the contradictory nature that I am, there are certain words that are indeed off-limits in my house, even with a free-wheeling parent such as myself.  This isn’t so much because they are curse words as it is because they are derogatory and hateful words.  Indeed, there are some non-curse words that are off-limits in my house for the same reason.

Let’s admit it, sometimes the right curse word in the right situation is the best. Quite often they are the most accurate way to convey a particular emotion (just ask Lewis Black); and why should we limit ourselves by not using what is at our disposal?  The trick to all of it (of course there’s a trick, there’s always a trick) is to know, understand, and respect your audience.  It’s important to have respect for oneself as well.  

As I tell my kids, don’t come off looking stupid just because you think it’s cool to use a curse word when you know very well that a better, more appropriate, word would do — have more respect for yourself. Respect is a great deal more important than freedom of speech.  At least in my house…which, contrary to outward appearances, has never been much of a democracy to begin with.

no cursing